


I've Got Something to Hide - (In which Ethan struggles with self-harm)

by ADHDdumbass



Category: CrankGameplays - Fandom, Unus Annus - Fandom
Genre: ADHD, ADHD issues, Blood, Cutter Ethan Nestor, Cutting Ethan Nestor, Cutting!ethan nestor - Freeform, EXPLICIT SELF HARM, Emotional Dysregulation, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Razor - Freeform, Secrets, Self Confidence Issues, Self Harm, Self harmer Ethan Nestor, adhd depression, depressed!ethan nestor, razorblade, safety pin, self harm!ethan nestor - Freeform, self-harming Ethan Nestor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:26:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28602912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADHDdumbass/pseuds/ADHDdumbass
Summary: Ethan Nestor is a fourteen-year-old living with ADHD. One of the executive functions that is affected, is Emotional Regulation. So basically: He's over emotional, or unaffected, he doesn't know how to deal with his emotions, & they can change any way the wind blows. Crossed with his depressing interaction with school & social skills, he feels stupid & "behind" his classmates & family members. In order to "improve" he punishes himself.This is the story of how he started his Silent Habits; more commonly known as Self Harm.
Kudos: 9





	I've Got Something to Hide - (In which Ethan struggles with self-harm)

**Author's Note:**

> If you came here because you relate, I'm sorry. Hopefully this is cathartic for you.

I was 14 when I first did it, it was right after I failed a gymnastics competition. I mean, it wasn’t like I hadn’t lost or missed something before, but this time it just got to me. I messed up on almost every piece I did & my form was horrible, & I fell so much… I guess it just made me angry. I had trained- I put my life into this! But I couldn’t actually do well at the one thing I had any semblance of skill at? So I ended up smashing my fist into the ground out of frustration. I mean, everybody does something like that at some point, mine wasn’t that out of the ordinary. I guess my thoughts weren’t as normal as the action though, I punched out of anger, but as soon as I felt the pain I told myself I deserved it; that I deserved more. 

Even though I’m at home now, I’m still torn up about throwing the competition, & feel like I deserve a punishment. So when I go to brush my teeth before bed, I get distracted… My eyes are caught. Stuck on a pair of nail clippers. Now, I’ve heard of people hurting themselves, I didn’t know much about it, but we learned about it in health class. School wasn’t always the best at teaching, despite being the point of a school, but at least they mentioned self harm. But I’m not going to self harm, I’m just going to… punish myself. I am trying to improve, so of course it won’t count as self harm, self harm was bad. I was doing it for good. I pick up the nail clippers quietly, but not in fear, & bring the sharp end to my wrist. Wait, isn’t that what self harm-ers do? I’m not a self harm-er & I don’t want people to think I am, or to worry about me. I guess I could do my hand? Nobody would expect it to be in such a visible place, & it would be easier to explain away as if I just got hurt by accident, so it was decided. I would cut my hand. 

I bring the nail clippers to the back of my hand, trying different angles before going at it for real. I want it to be natural. I lift the sleeve of my jumper up & push it back to my elbow in order to have it stay. The fleshy part of my hand right behind my thumb would be most easily explained away… Yes, that’s the best idea. I press them against the back of my hand, & thinking about my failure, drag down. The pair of scratches aren’t that deep, I don’t think they’ll bleed at all. I’m not shocked at that, nor am I shocked at myself for self harming- because it’s not self harm! I’m not that kind of person! In the media they always drop the tool & stare in the mirror with their hands over their mouths, but when I look in the mirror I see a calm boy staring back at me. My face is oily from the competition, but my expression is neutral, but possibly almost pleased. I don’t look at all like what self harm-ers do, my hair is brown, my cheeks are not pale, I’m wearing colour, & I’m… almost smiling maybe? Well whatever. I wash my face with a natural disposition & go into my room, it’s about time I head to sleep. As I crawl under the covers, I affirm to myself one last time: It wasn’t self harm.

The next time I cut, I had just finished a math test. I’m at home again & I already know I’ve failed. God how could I be so stupid? I need to step up my game. I immediately head to my room & pull a safety pin out of my sock. I always have a safety pin in my sock so I can pin them together when I do laundry, it helps with my adhd. I mean, it really doesn’t count as cutting if I’m just scratching with a safety pin, right? I put it against my hand, ready to scratch as deep as I can. But… 

Maybe I shouldn’t do it there again. I could do my legs because then nobody would see at all. I sit down on my bed after sliding my pants partially off, & stare at my thighs for a heartbeat. I know I’m bad at math, but how did I fail my test? I probably got less than 50%! In this moment of anger, I rip as hard as I can at my thighs with the safety pin. It is a delayed reaction of pain, I’ve already made several scratches when I start to bleed & feel the burn. I deserve this because I’m so stupid. I need to do better. I didn’t do good, so this is what I get. Take that Ethan! I say to myself. My bed creaks slightly due to the violence at which I’m scratching, which brings me back to reality. My leg is starting to bleed, tiny bubbles of blood sprouting up from some of the scratches. None of them are really deep, so only a few of them release anything. All I need to do is grab a couple of bandaids so I won’t get my pants dirty.

I stand up, using my hand to rub in some of the blood so it doesn’t drip down my thigh, pull up my pants loosely, check the hallway, & dash to the washroom. Even though I’m covered up, my hand still has blood on it & I don’t want to take any chances. I remove my pants once again, & dab dampened toilet paper over my thigh. This is fine, I’m cleaning up after myself, that’s good. I open the grey cupboard under the sink & rummage through the bin to find the bandaid box. After finally catching sight of it & bringing it out, I examine it to find the proper sized patch. I look down to my leg to see what size & how many, & see no blood. After cleaning it off, no more had oozed out. Well I guess I don’t need bandaids then. I put the box back into the bin in the cupboard under the sink in the bathroom, & push myself up. I stand in the middle of the washroom, looking in toward the shower. I’m not entirely sure what’s running through my head, the thoughts are not fully formed, mixed & mashed together & flowing by too quickly for me to understand. I shake my head, flicking off the lights, & exiting the room. I still have my wet toilet paper hidden in my hands, I don’t want it to be seen in the washroom wastebin, so I’ll throw it out in my bedside bin. I’ve done it again. I’ll be able to get away with this. Not that it’s some sin that I need to hide, just that my family would think I’m self harm-ing when I’m not, I’m just… taking out my anger at my own failures on my body & punishing myself so that I can do better in the future. It’s a good thing. I’m doing a good thing. 

Again, almost a week later, I see my Dad, all covered in stubble & tired-eyed, waiting outside the washroom after I took my shower. Rubbing my towel over my wet hair, I sidestep him to get to my room & put my towel away. A few minutes later, I have my lunch packed & I’m shaking a protein shake for breakfast, when I see Dad coming down the stairs, clean shaven. A zap of electricity shoots through my brain.  
*Ethan, much younger than he is now, climbed up onto the bathroom counter & stood, looking into the open cabinets, though, they were more like cubbies than cabinets. He wasn’t supposed to be up there, but he was just so curious. So so curious. 8y/o’s are much smarter than people give them credit for. Ethan leaned across the open space towards the cubbies & put his hand into the high shelf. The treasures he found were: Pills his parents gave him when he was sick- he knew better than to take those; perfumes & cologne that he took one sniff of before his nasal passageways cleared, & a box that was too heavy to pull out, but inside it were more boxes, so he took one of them out to examine. The box said “platinum LORD” on it, platinum was like gold, right? Was this little rectangular box surrounding a little ingot? A platinum bar? Excitedly, Ethan opened the box. He found not platinum, but five envelopes that said platinum. He took out the first one, & opened it- it was like a miniature letter! Inside the envelope was another envelope! This one was folded differently. The child unwrapped it giddily & carelessly, seeing a glint of metal… And then he was bleeding. A huge bright red, almost orange puddle formed on his hand. It became a miniature river & suddenly he felt pain: a sharp stinging burn, that felt like his hand was on fire where the small laceration was. Thankfully, when he jumped, he didn’t slice himself any deeper. Oh how painful! His eyes were pricked with tears, though not yet crying, & he washed his hand under the water. The bleeding didn’t stop for a very very long time. In reality it stopped in just a few minutes, but to Ethan’s young adhd brain, it felt like half an hour. He took it out from under the water, still bleeding, & wrapped it up in toilet paper. He hid the sharp in the garbage, packed in a wad of tissue, so he wouldn’t get in trouble. & that was that.*  
I snap back to reality-! I have to go out to my bus stop in a couple minutes, it’s the yellow bus, so if I miss it, I’ll have to be driven, which would make one of my parents late, & neither would be happy about that. I open up my protein shake, & drink it without hesitation. Five minutes until the bus should be here, & I should be out there now. Andrew is already getting his shoes on, I can think about… Shaving, later. 

I managed not to think about it much at school, being distracted by how stupid it was & all, but, as soon as I step into the kitchen where I saw Dad clean shaven, I’m reminded of my thoughts this morning. He’s not home from work yet, & neither is Mom, & Andrew is in his room. I can just… go in… to the washroom… & just take it. Andrew won’t be coming out any time soon, & it’s not suspicious if I need to use the bathroom, so I just go in. I’m taller than I was then, but still not quite tall enough to reach the top cubby, so I climb on top of the counter, then I turn around & peer into the highest shelf. I see the box. I couldn’t see it last time I was up here because I was so short, but I could see it clearly now. I reach across, & open the flap saying LORD which covers the top. About half of the first layer is gone. One of them is out of line, just resting in the open space of the empty half. I pick that one up, & sit down on the counter, which isn’t as comfortable as it could be. The little cardboard box is opened along perforations on one end, so I easily slide out one of three envelopes. Dad has already gone through two razorblades in this pack, it wouldn’t be suspicious if he went to change the blade & there were only two left. He doesn’t count, he just changes them when his safety razor needs a changed blade. I close the cardboard, stand back up, replace it, & close the lid. Hide the evidence. Sit back on the counter. Open the platinum envelope. Open the wax paper- carefully, Ethan! Last time it cut you! But, why should I be concerned about that if that’s the reason I’m getting it out in the first place? I carefully hold it in the center, afraid of the double edge, the four corners. I place the center of the bottom edge lightly on my thigh. I needed a reason to do this- I can’t just do it for fun! Let’s see, I was dominating the conversation with my friends during lunch today. That was rude. Thinking about this, I bring my attention back to the metal on my thigh, & lightly, slowly drag it sideways. It Stings Like Heck! I don’t get very far with it, it feels like a papercut. Stupid thing. 

I need to dispose of it now though, otherwise Dad will find out. I look around, not noticing blood start to seep into the tiny wound. Well first of all, I should wrap it back up in its envelopes. I handle it carefully, not wanting to nick myself & get in trouble. But don’t homeless people dig through trash sometimes? & wouldn’t my parents see if there was the LORD envelope sitting right on top of the bathroom garbage? Obviously. So I look to the toilet paper roll. I pick it up, & twist it around my hand a few times, unraveling the paper onto my hand, then rip it off, & put it back. The envelope is sitting on the counter, when did I put it down? No matter. I pick it up using my fingernails (the thing is so thin), & wrap it up in the toilet paper, then shove it down into the wastebin, so nobody can see it. Perfect. I look down at my bare leg, it’s not bleeding anymore, but the blood hasn’t quite caused a scab. I don’t need to put a bandaid on, I’ll be fine. I wash my hands out of habit, & cross the hallways to my room. I suppose I have homework to do.

It’s only a few days this time. I said something stupid at supper. I’m just so stupid, I hate it! I’m so angry at myself, &, I want to just be better instead of me. Bad things have bad consequences. I cleared the table with my head down, but now I’m alone in the washroom, & my head is sharply upright. If I tiptoe right up against the wall, I can reach into the cardboard. The smaller box finds my hand, & I bring it down. Dad changed swapped his blades since I looked in this box last. I can’t take the last one, that would be too obvious, he would know someone tampered with his stuff. But I really need to punish myself. Reluctantly, I step up onto the countertop like a child (another reason to cut), & put the open box back where I found it, & move my hand to the boxes to the right. There are layers of boxes, set in rows. Dad is on the second layer, &, just like last time, about halfway through it. I can’t tell if he goes left-to-right; right-to-left, or if he goes left-to-right on all the rows. It doesn’t matter, I just need one of the boxes. I pick up the next one in the sequence, Dad doesn’t count the boxes, it’ll be fine. Coming back down to floor-level, I flip the box over to get at the perforation. Efficiently, I pop it open. Then I slide out an envelope. Then the envelope over the envelope. Then the razorblade itself.  
My heart does a thing. I don’t know if it got faster, skipped a beat, or got cool & calm, but I felt something in there. 

I drop my pants to the knee, & raise my boxers slightly- the more fabric, the better. Holding the sheet like last time, I lay it gently to my thigh. My mind is already calmer, trying to figure out how to get away with it wasn’t good for my already irritated brain. The metal is so sharp, & wish my mind would be more like that, yet the metal is also flexible. I love it. I take a deep breath, angling the light device so that the tip is touching my skin, instead of the flat edge. I didn’t like the papercut feel last time. As I reach the peak of my breath, I pull the blade down the outside of my right thigh. Not slowly enough for me to chicken out, but not so fast it’s daunting or dangerous. The anxiety of getting caught is released with my breath & the smooth drag of the razor. I do it again. The breath, the slice, the resolution of internal conflict. I said something stupid at supper today, & the negativity left me hot & unbalanced; I cut, & the pain balances out the negativity. I’m calm. I’m not mad at myself anymore. My leg is bleeding from three shallow cuts, but they’re cuts instead of scratches this time. The blood would ball up with the safetypin, but with the clean & professional razorblade, the cuts were properly made. Shallow & superficial, but they still split the skin in a clean, moderately straight line. The blood is not coming out in a few globular spots, but is seeping into the line, filling up the empty ravine of skin with red. Slowly surfacing. 

Wait! I’m supposed to be cleaning myself up & leaving the bathroom, I can’t be here too long otherwise they’ll know something’s up. I put some wet toilet paper over them to stick & soak up any blood. I rinse the device, but instead of wrapping it in tissue like last time, I re-envelope it, & replace it into the box. I gently place the box into my pocket, not wanting to disturb the tissue sticking to my leg. I check both ways in the hallways, & speedwalk to my room. The little box needs a hiding place. Under the mattress is where I should put it. Neither Mom nor Dad change my sheets, after all, I’m fourteen! I put it under the mattress at the foot of my bed. Perfectly hidden. 

And next time- next times, I use the same device, the same corner, until it’s dull. The next corner. Upside down. I don’t throw it out even after it’s dull, I can still use it, so I save it, even while opening up a new envelope. Each time I use it, I wash it & dry it before putting it away- just because I’m self-harming (no, not self-harm) doesn’t mean I want to get gangrene or tetanus or bacteria growing on the wet blade! Maybe what I’m doing isn’t normal… But it’s not bad! I’m safe & I do it because I want to improve myself!  
…  
Right?

**Author's Note:**

> I am not planning on continuing this fic, even though I had ideas for a current-day relapse. If you liked this & want to re-write it, translate it, continue it, re-write it for a different fandom, etc.: go for it. Leave a comment! If you want to write a sequel, I can gift this to you probably. Before doing any of that tho, please leave a comment. I'd love for you to adapt this for different fandoms, write sequels, or take inspiration from this general idea, but please ask/tell me first. If any of you are struggling with this, I'm sorry. I love you. (You might say I can't love you bc I don't know you, but if ppl can hate like that *cough*queerphobia&racism* then I can love like that.) Thanks so much for reading! This took a lot of work, esp since I myself am adhd & struggle to sit & write for a long time, to organize my thoughts & articulate myself, & with dedication. I'm proud of myself. & I'm proud of you.


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